The lift kept humming like a sleepy beast under their boots. The sound was steady, low, and round, like breath in a chest. Dust drifted in the amber lamps, lazy and stubborn, every mote doing a small turn in the air before it finally gave up and fell. The ribs of root around the platform creaked sometimes, wood whispering against stone. It felt like an old ship at sea, except the sea was underground and smelled of mushrooms and iron.
Thalatha rolled her neck to the right until it clicked, then to the left. Habit made her brace for the stab under her ribs—the tiny knife that woke every morning since the outpost burned. She lifted both arms, palms up, breath in, elbows locked. She waited for the pinch to bite.
It did not come.
